You Don't Always Get What You Want
by LibertyRoll
Summary: Mello's final thoughts in that truck were anything but pleasant... Except maybe that last one. One-shot, rated for small amount of language.


_Hey there - for those of you following me, sorry I haven't been updating or uploading anything lately. Other projects have kind of taken over my life, not to mention working waaaay too much at a job I hate waaaaay too much. :)_

_Anyway, here we are with a quick one-shot about our lovable Mello. However, this one came out of a very special place in my heart and is as much about Mello as it is about me. This fic came about yesterday after re-reading the intro the the spin-off novel, the BB Murder Cases. I felt an immense sadness coming from his first page and a half and it reminded me of several of my own struggles._

_To anyone reading Beyond Succeeding - I do have every intention of continuing it, it just might take a while as I'm working on a doujin on DeviantArt and I've got to prepare for school and an artist alley table too, so I've been busy. I'll probably have a writing spree come September or so. :) Maybe sooner rather than later?_

_Oh, and I don't do this often, but a song to go with the fic: "Second Chances" by Needtobreathe. Listen while reading. ^^_

_Beta'd by Raven Ehtar and voiceoftheshadowrealm_

A mountain of pain and sorrow; that's what anyone would say is my life if they were to look back on it, and perhaps they'd be right. Orphaned at a young age (but not too young to remember the gruesome details), abandoned to an orphanage that didn't give a damn, and then rescued by a certain Mr. Wammy, condemned to be second-best for the rest of my life, never quite achieving my life goals.  
I've always considered almost achieving a goal and failing to be more tragic than failing by a substantial amount. If it hadn't been for one small white speck on the radar, I'd have achieved everything I struggled for, perhaps more. But I didn't and it was torturous. Even now, I am second. Out of the orphanage, chasing Kira and his cronies, I am helping the small white speck achieve my goals, my dreams.  
What could be more painful than this?

Growing up, many children are told that they can achieve anything they set their mind to, and even if you "shoot for the moon" and miss, they'll "still land among the stars." What a lie. Nothing could be further from the truth. My life is full of failed attempts, though I've always outdone myself with every new plan. Hours were spent studying, only to be second-best. Days were spent planning, only to have them blow up in my face. Weeks were spent watching, waiting, stalking, only to get here: dying on a steering wheel in some damned building on the side of the road.  
Surely all my struggles weren't useless? The pain in my chest pales in comparison to the torture of almost achieving a goal but utterly failing. It's like receiving a 49.5% on an exam, a secret failure that only a few people know of. Unfortunately, one of those people is that speck on my radar, just big enough to prevent my victory.  
I wonder if he'll even care that I'm dead?  
I wonder if he'll even notice I'm gone?  
I wonder if he noticed I was gone?  
We grew up together, Near and I, always competing. He came to the Wammy's House a few years after I did and knocked me down from number one to number two almost immediately. At first I thought that teachers were going easy on the pipsqueak, but after two months of his scores being solidly on top of mine, that hope died a horrible, humiliating death.  
And it wasn't just the scores, either. This new kid rendered a kind of fear and respect from the other kids and teachers from the moment he stepped foot in the orphanage. His eyes were round and wide, like saucers. They were dead, as if he'd blocked out all life and was a self-contained kingdom, interacting with the outside world only as necessary. He needed no one and was above all human interaction.  
Or, that's what everyone thought, though I knew otherwise. In our interactions, he looked at me with respect that he showed no one else, as if out of pity, and spoke with me with a kind of openness that he allowed with no other, as if to earn friendship as a part of some scheme. All of these seemed both sincere and fake, and even now I can't fathom the motives behind them. It confuses me, makes me wonder.  
Would we have become closer allies if we both hadn't been so stubbornly competitive? Perhaps that's where the sting lies. Even now, as I lay dying on the side of the road, I can't think of him with anything, _anything_, other than rage.  
But I am thinking of him.  
Another surge of pain runs through my system, and my sight goes white. Breath is squeezed out of me like the last bit of toothpaste. It's very cold. It's very white. It's very painful.  
And I can't tell if this is more what death feels like or if it's what Near feels like inside that pompous head of his. No matter how hard I try, I can't do it. He stepped on me, rubbed it in my face every step of the way.  
I failed at containing my rage back then, and even now, even in the whiteness and the fading awareness of being alive, there is nothing more that I want other than to rip him apart. I can practically see that smirk on his face from back then. The small 14 year-old boy I left that November evening, the night we were told of our idol's death, all those years ago. He'd been just as crushed as I and hadn't let me in on it, hadn't shared it.  
If he had, would it have made a difference?  
The whiteness creeps closer, slowly enveloping me, creeping into the last bits of this cursed truck, taking them from sight.  
And then, my final thought: a picture from so long ago. The day I met him, it had been our first class together and he was my partner. I had hurt my hand on a knife during biology and I remember, that instead of freaking out over the amounts of blood coming from me, he took off his outer shirt, and treated it as if he'd done it a million times before; pressing gently, calming any panic in me. Until the teacher came with disinfectant once the bleeding had stilled, he held his blood-stained shirt there and cared for me like he would never again.  
My hand on my lap twitches, the same one that speck had held all those years ago.  
Consider this as repayment, Near.

I'll be waiting for you.

_Thanks for reading! Please review. =3_


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